The beggar patient

 

In front of a hospital,

on the outskirts of a town,

on the starting point of a road divider,

facing a crossing,

there she sits,--

a fragile, old, sickly woman,

Hunched and crouching,

A blanked and soiled bundle by her side,

There are dozens of patients in the hospital,

recovering, cared for,

They have money,

They have family and friends,

She but is all to herself

and some kind soul’s mercy

who may stop, pause and give something,

Her head is hung low,

The eyes forever grounded,

She doesn’t look at you;

doesn't say a begging word;

doesn’t plead;

nor thanks you if you give something,

She is too poor and sick to give anything,

She hasn’t even that much life

to even say thank you or a little sad smile,

She is present

but life seems to be absent,

You can give some fruit or coins,

She is an open little box of misery

lying there to give a chance

to feel kind and caring,

A wooden box almost,--

Lifeless!

And a box doesn’t speak,

Maybe some kind doctor or caring nurse

give her some pills sometimes

as their share in the domain of charity,

The beggar patient, they must be thinking,

Possibly she draws some security

by being so near to a hospital,

A mere look at the swanky, glass fronted hospital

must be assuring her that she’s at a hospital.

I have seen her a few times,

Sprouted like a mushroom on a dung heap

in the season of monsoon,

I also know she’ll be gone suddenly some day,

But I’ll remember the heavy presence

of her light body in her absence.